Father Knows Best
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock finds that he needs some advice from an old and trusted source. Implied Sherlolly.


Sherlock Holmes was taking a drive in the country. This was not something he did on a regular basis, as he considered everything outside of London and its environs the uncivilized hinterlands. The fact that he had been raised in a large, comfortable "cottage" in these hinterlands was something he avoided mentioning at all costs, and he rarely ventured back to his childhood haunts. But this was an emergency.

He could have taken the motorway south from London, but decided to take the more relaxing back roads. He needed time to think, to contemplate, once again, if he really needed to make this trip. Sherlock Holmes seldom asked for advice, and seldom took it when it was offered. But this was a unique situation in which he found himself, and his brother Mycroft, he was sure, would do nothing but sneer at his vulnerability. The further he got from London, and his problem, the more he felt the trip was, indeed, necessary. He was going home to Mummy and Papa.

Sherlock pulled up to the cottage stealthily, not wishing to alarm his parents. The last time he had been here, his homeless assistant, Billy Wiggins, had drugged his parents, at his behest, and his brother, after wishing them a happy Christmas, and watched Sherlock and John Watson go off somewhere to wind up putting a bullet in a blackmailer's head. Naturally, this somewhat sour expression of Christmas spirit did not sit well with his parents, especially Mummy. They would certainly be amazed to find that he was returning to this, the scene of his latest crime against them, a scant four months later. It was usually years between his visits, forcing them to descend upon London and strong arm him into taking them to West End shows. So, on this occasion, stealth was his friend, especially if he wanted to avoid paternal heart attacks and maternal flying objects.

He quietly opened the door. No one was in the sitting room, but he did hear voices coming from the kitchen. Oh, god lord, was that Mycroft? What were the odds that both sons would turn up on the same day! But perhaps Mycroft was more attentive than he let on. He always was a mama's boy, Sherlock thought! The detective entered the kitchen to find his mother and brother sharing tea and conversation.

"Hello, Mycroft, I hope you're not eating all of Mummy's biscuits. Not good for the waistline."

Violet Holmes was on her feet immediately, putting her arms around her younger son's neck and pulling him down for a kiss on the cheek. "Will, what a surprise. Are you by yourself, this time?" she asked with not some small amount of suspicion.

"Yes, Sherlock, do tell if you've brought that delightful Mr. Wiggins with you again. I got some special tea I would like to serve him…"

"Not to worry, everyone. I'm on my own. Not a drug to speak of," Sherlock looked at his brother with a smirk, "neither on me or in me!"

"Good to hear, brother," Mycroft tried to sound disinterested, but curiosity got the better of him. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Had I known you were here, Mycroft, I might have withheld that pleasure until another time. But I certainly don't want to waste a long drive into the wilderness…"

"Will, this 'wilderness' is where you were born and raised! You used to love it so…"

"He still does, I believe," Mycroft put in. "I have it one good authority that he has often said he plans to retire to the countryside of Sussex…"

"Your 'good authority' is the surveillance you have been conducting on my flat, brother. And the operative word is 'retire'. I have come to the conclusion that the countryside is beneficial for children and retirees, and have come to appreciate the sacrifice our parents made by submitting themselves to voluntary exile for our benefit…"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are such a snob!"

"I know, Mummy. I take after Mycroft!" The elder brother snorted a bit into his tea, as Sherlock continued, "Where's Papa? I need to speak to him."

"Your father is locked away in his study, either running a chemical analysis in his mind, or writing poetry. Could be either at the moment, his mind is so undisciplined at times. Why don't you bring him a cup of tea? It will make it easier for you to distract him from whatever muse he's listening to currently." Violet prepared a cup for her husband, and watched her younger son head off in the direction of the study. She didn't even question why the detective needed to speak to his father. If Mycroft was a mama's boy, as was often said, then Sherlock was definitely his father's son. If he needed his father's input on some matter, he was not likely to share this with her. But she had no doubt at all that her husband would, and she could wait. Perhaps not patiently, but she could wait.

Before he could even knock, Sherlock heard his father's voice, "Come on in, Sherlock," and he entered to find the elderly man sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his hands resting on the back of his neck.

"What is it today, Papa, chemistry or poetry?"

"At the moment, neither. I was just about to join Mycroft and your mother in the kitchen when I heard you arrive. And I know how much you love the drive down here, so I have to ask myself what is so important to bring you here, in person, to see me, eh? Something wrong with John and Mary? How are they getting along? And how is the new baby?"

"They're all fine, Papa. I've been asked to be godfather…"

"Of course you have, son. You're John's dearest friend. Congratulations!"

"Yes, I am, and who would have thought I'd be able to say that a few years ago." Sherlock spoke in an offhand manner, slightly bemused by the idea.

"Everything alright with Martha?"

"Mrs. Hudson is in excellent health, and good spirits. I do think, however, that the birth of young Miss Watson has permanently dashed her hopes of John and I living happily ever after…"

Siger Holmes guffawed at the remark. "As long as I have known her, Martha has been a very poor judge of human nature. Perhaps that's why she would up married to a drug lord? If she hadn't been away in America during your uni days, she might have been more aware of your exploits…"

"They were hardly exploits, Papa. Just experimentation…"

"Yes, well, it would have been better all around if you had kept up the experimentation with women, and dropped the the drugs, instead of vice versa."

"Point taken, Papa. But the drugs were only damaging to me, not my partners. And they left no permanent physical after effects, like unwanted children…"

"And they were easier to deal with, Sherlock. I know. You have always found it difficult to deal with people, relationships, sentiment…"

"I'm learning, Papa. And that's why I need to talk to you…"

"I'm beginning to see the reason for this visit. You're in love, aren't you?"

Sherlock Holmes had always been amazed at his father's intuitive grasp of every situation. His mother had the more analytical mind, but his father was lightyears ahead of her when it came to emotion. "I'm not even sure I know what love is, Papa."

"Of course you do, you git. You've observed your mother and I for your entire life! What makes you think you don't know love when you see it? Or feel it?"

"I've always been rather selfish, rather spoiled, you might say," Sherlock looked at his father with a bit of a smile. "I blame you people for that, you know! Providing such a stable homelife, providing everything I need! What were you thinking?"

"Were you really happy at home, Sherlock? You seemed to be a normal kid."

"Yes, well, it wasn't until I left for school that I realized how far from normal I was, as is Mycroft. Mycroft seemed to handle it better. I shut down, I suppose…"

"And at this late date, you're opening up again. Good for you! That means there's hope for your brother yet! So, tell me about her."

"She's brilliant, kind, generous, lovely! Everything I am not, except the brilliant part. And she tolerates me. There's a lot to be said for a woman who can tolerate me, Papa. Speaks volumes about her patience, and fortitude." He said this with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Does she love you?"

"I don't know. I think, maybe, she used to. But now, I'm not so sure." Sherlock gave a small sigh, and looked at his father. "I think now that I've loved her all along, but didn't want to admit it to myself. I don't deserve her, I know that."

"You keep using the term 'think', Sherlock. That may be your problem. You think too much! And why would you think you don't deserve her? If you care enough about her to believe that, then of course, you love her. And it's not your decision in the end, is it? She'll decide if you deserve her, or not...

"Maybe…"

"Decide what you want, Sherlock, and go for it. What do you want, in any case?"

"I want a family, damn it! I want what John and Mary have. What you and Mummy have…"

"Then go out there and get it. It can be a rather frightening proposition, I know, Your mother still terrifies me at times. But the thought of my life without her terrifies me even more. What frightens you the most, Sherlock?" As his father spoke, Sherlock had a vision of his future. It looked like something out of Dickens' "Christmas Carol". Alone. Forgotten. But this image was soon replaced by one of colorful jumpers, brown eyes looking up at him, curly-haired kids, and an endless parade of ginger tabby cats and easily attainable body parts.

"Thank you, Papa," the younger man said as he rose to leave. His father rose as well, and grabbed his shoulder to hold him still for a moment, looking into his eyes. "You have your mother's eyes, Sherlock. It would be a shame not to pass them on to a future generation!" he said with a smile.

"I'll do my best, but I'm not sure genetics will cooperate. You may have to settle for brown-eyed grandchildren. Perhaps Mycroft can come through for you!" he said with a snicker as he left the room, and hurriedly took his leave of his mother and brother.

"What was that all about, Papa?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"None of your business, son," Siger Holmes turned to leave the room, but addressed his elder son one last time. "Mycroft, what color eyes does Anthea have, by the way?"


End file.
